Just Tonight
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. And then, as they walked away, he caught the way she mouthed out her gratitude towards her captain, and all of a sudden he understood Quinn Fabray perfectly.


**A/N: **Hi guys! First of all, please don't shoot me! This story helped me recover from that dreadful writer's block, so I'm going to celebrate by put it up. LOL!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Just Tonight**

Come Monday morning, Sam Evans knew she would have that indifferent façade on again—playing the imperative part of the social hierarchy, sauntering down the school hallways in her tiny red-and-white cheerleading outfit with her two minions, and ruling the student body with merely a quirk of an eyebrow or a smirk on her lips—but just for tonight, she was his.

Physically.

Emotionally.

Sexually.

He wasn't even certain how they had come to this; how she—the almighty—had fallen from grace. All she had said—before they had embarked on this traitorously amazing journey together—was that she just needed a nameless face and an obscure place.

Someone she wouldn't remember to take her virginity.

**Here we are and I can't think from all the pills, hey  
****Start the car and take me home**

Somewhere she knew she would forget.

Slightly inebriated, she had accosted him at the post-game party, a red solo cup in one hand—her fifth, he noticed—and shiny blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders in golden waves, hazel eyes bright and glazed over, cheeks brilliantly flushed from the heat and alcohol. Slouched in an innocuous corner all by his lonesome, Sam had been brooding, wondering why the fuck he was even there. McKinley had lost—quite terribly, in fact—and he wasn't even on the team, but he had been determined not to be a complete loser. Besides, he lived next door, and Noah 'Puck' Puckerman had mentioned once—in junior high—that he was free to go over anytime he fancied, so he reckoned he would cash in on that offer.

His bedroom became the most convenient option; it was away from teenagers pissing themselves on the way to the loo and of nosy busybodies itching for juicy gossip to run on the mill, so it was only logical that their clothes landed in a scattered mess on his carpeted floor amidst his DVDs, comic books and game consoles. They hadn't spoken once since he'd taken her hand and led her through the back gate and into his kitchen—stumbling on occasion as she tried desperately to put one foot in front of the other—but as he allowed her free reign on his body, tittering on that side of proper molestation, she kept murmuring incoherently against his skin.

A hard shove sent him sprawling across the duvet, the springs in the mattress creaking beneath his weight, and a second later, he had a lapful of Quinn Fabray straddling his tapered hips, a predatory smirk on her delicate features that sent a shot of arousal straight down to where he was already hard and straining against the confines of his favorite Superman boxers. Palms pressed flat against his chest, she leaned forward and brought their noses a scant of breath apart.

"Have you been with a girl before?" she whispered huskily, her words slurring and stained of cheap beer. "Like this? Physically?"

He swallowed the huge lump in his throat, his pulse speeding up triple time, and he wondered briefly how it would feel like to die by too much stimulation; if he'd be immortalized with the cheer captain's face on his tombstone. Clutching onto the cotton sheets with tight fists, Sam could barely enunciate his syllables.

**Here we are and you're too drunk to hear a word I say  
****Start the car and take me home**

"Once," he squeaked, twitching when he felt the wetness of her tongue trail down the slope of his jaw. "Summer camp."

"Great," she muttered sarcastically. "That's reassuring."

"I'll be careful and go slow," he promised shakily.

She pulled away to cock a pointed eyebrow at him. "I don't want slow or careful, Evans," she growled. "Quick and fast; just get it over with."

If he weren't so momentarily stunned that he knew his name at all, he probably would have been more prepared for the sudden onslaught of blonde hair and an eager mouth attacking his neck, nibbling and nuzzling in a way that made him groan. Her dexterous hands roamed hungrily down the length of his torso, fingernails scraping teasingly across his pelvic bone, and every inch of his nerve endings were on fire as she kissed a path down to his navel, stopping just shy of the waistband of his pants.

"This is promising," she purred, circling the spot where it tented with her thumb.

He gasped when she fully cupped his clothed erection. Instinct kicked in to shut his eyelids, but he was solely determined to witness every second of this experience. "It's going to hurt the first time."

"Yeah, okay," she remarked dismissively. "Where do you keep your condoms?"

"Side drawer," he replied with a small incline of his head.

It was endearing and utterly adorable; the sight of McKinley High's most intimidating Head-Bitch-In-Charge teetering around the semi-darkness in her rose-colored lingerie, hair disheveled and hardly able to hold her weight in alcohol. A moment later, he heard the slide of his bedside table, followed by the rummaging of his stuff, and in a completely out of character reaction, she whooped in glee, triumphantly brandishing a silver packet in the air.

"Do you know how to put it on?" she asked with a frown.

"Yeah," he shrugged, plucking the prophylactic from between her fingers and swiftly removing the last article of his clothing. "Of course."

She flopped unceremoniously down next to him and watched intently, squinting, as he tore the package open and hastily rolled the latex on, a little petulant pout on her luscious lips. It was as though a switch was flipped after that; the carnal desires in her hazel eyes returned with a newfound force, and she was pouncing onto him without any preamble. Her kisses bordered on bruising, but he wasn't in his right mind to be bothered—especially not with the way she was grinding and swiveling those talented hips of hers—even while she tugged a tad too roughly on his hair. Vaguely, he registered her wriggling on top of him, and then her lace panties were dropped right next to his ear.

**Just tonight I will stay  
****And we'll throw it all away**

Through the haze of lust, he managed a semblance of sanity, his Southern upbringing nipping him in the ass.

"Are you sure about this?"

She gave a handful of his golden strands a sharp yank.

"Just. Do. It. Now," she demanded through gritted teeth, a hint of a threat underlying in her tone.

Sam lined himself up, the tip of his shaft prodding gently at her slicked entrance. His attention never left the vicinity of her face as he vigilantly monitored every tiny reaction in hopes that he wouldn't hurt her too much in the process. Inhaling a deep lungful of air, he cautiously introduced himself into her warm harbor. He paused a quarter of an inch in, arms straining and the muscles in his back pulled taut from restraint, as he fought not to simply dive into the heaven that she provided. She squirmed, the discomfort clear as day, and for her sake, he remained as still as physically possible in the position they were in.

"Are you okay?"

Instead of answering, she grabbed the firm globes of his rear and drove him down and into her with one smooth thrust. They cried out simultaneously, his whole body going rigid, even as her nails were digging painfully into his pale flesh. Seconds later, he realized that she was trembling, her breaths coming in shallow pants against his shoulder, and he eased himself off her, the motion causing a delicious friction down to his crotch. Regardless, his main priority was Quinn. Her features were pinched, her brows furrowed, and immediately panic rose in his throat.

"Did I hurt you?"

Her eyes snapped open, and he was met with a pair of slightly-glazed over hazel orbs.

**When the light hits your eyes  
****It's telling me I'm right**

"No," she rasped, the falter in her voice betraying her false bravado. "No, you didn't."

In the faint glow of light coming from the street lamp outside his window, Sam could see the silver streaks of tear tracks trail down her porcelain cheeks.

"But you're crying," he murmured, and then attempted to shift away, but was thwarted when she held on fast.

"Just hurry up and finish it," she urged.

Sam hesitated, torn between his decisions and noble intentions, until she forcefully rocked up into him with an impatient huff. Any forms of coherency blacked out from his mind as his libido took over. Groaning somewhat feebly under her insistent ministrations, he surrendered to her needs. With his weight still braced on his hands, he drew back just halfway before plunging back down again. It was exquisite; the way she gloved him so completely, he never wanted it to end. Murmuring mellifluous nothings into her ear, he struggled and concentrated with what little wit he had left on his task to bring them to completion. Her whimpers and hushed half-sobs made for a soundtrack that he knew would replay itself for an eternity in his head.

"Oh, Quinn…"

"Keep going," she pleaded. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

Once.

Twice.

And then he was soaring and crashing all at the same time, completely wrecked with shudders to the tips of his toes. She was clawing onto his back as he emptied himself into the condom. Fully spent, he collapsed on top of her, sated and utterly satisfied, and tried to stable his thundering heart. He was lulled by the rise and fall of her still bra-encased breasts, and at the sudden thought that he might crush her, he quickly rolled away.

"If you tell anybody about this—"

"Don't worry, Quinn," he cut in, staring up at the ceiling. "My lips are sealed."

**And if I, I am through  
****Then it's all because of you  
****Just tonight**

* * *

She avoided him like the plague in school—not that it was any different from before—and when he had unintentionally crossed her path en route to his locker, he pretended that her snarky remark didn't stab him right between his shoulder blades. Brittany S. Pierce and Santana Lopez had snickered in agreement, adding in their own two cents' worth of insults, and he celebrated in the fact that at least their dirty little secret had remained undiscovered.

In the shower room after P.E, Puck had shamelessly announced that he was hitting homerun with Quinn later that evening with a plan to seduce her with a couple of wine coolers. The rest of the football team had cheered him on with wolf whistles and catcalls, offering vulgar advice or suggesting techniques that were quite frankly rather degrading for a person of Quinn's stature. Disgusted with their disrespectful behavior, Sam had dumped his clothes haphazardly into his backpack and stormed out of there before he could be tempted to break some noses.

When he got home that afternoon, the first thing he did was strip his bed of those dreadful sheets and replaced them with the ones he hadn't used in ages because they were an ugly shade of yellow. His pillow still held residual fruity scents from her shampoo, so he tossed it aside and slept on a bunch of rolled-up towels instead.

* * *

It was just fucking unfortunate he had to hear all about it the following morning during homeroom. He really didn't need such intimate details, and the thirty minutes he spent glaring down at the page of his textbook without reading anything were possibly the most painful moments in his life. The bell had barely finished ringing before he was bolting out of the classroom.

By lunchtime, he'd known about ten different renditions of Puck and Quinn's alleged sexcapade, not one did he believe was true. Even so, he found himself throwing out the half-eaten sandwich seconds after he stumbled upon the aforementioned couple in a bout of public displays of affection underneath a tree.

He had just lost his appetite.

* * *

Living with a case of dyslexia, homework was relatively a bitch because it usually took him twice or three times longer than the average teenager to complete. Hunched over the complicated equations, Sam heaved a frustrated sigh and rubbed the strain in his eyes. A glimpse at the clock on his cellphone indicated that he'd gone at those math problems for nearly two hours; he reckoned there was no way he could get everything done, especially since he had another short assignment to complete about the Battle of Gettysburg.

Vaguely, he noticed his mother's fiery red Toyota pull up in the driveway, and a good thirty seconds later, he heard the front door open.

"Sam, are you home?" Mary Evans called out, uncharacteristically chirpy for someone who worked as a lawyer. "Can you come down here, please? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

He stifled a groan, hoping against all odds that it wasn't another one of her annoying clients in need of a babysitter for the evening while the adults discussed marital problems, or how to go about suing their spouses for the most obnoxious reasons. Resigned to a late night of studying, Sam decided to play the devoted son and reluctantly padded down the stairs.

On the last step, he froze.

Perhaps he was too stressed out and was seeing things.

Most importantly, the blonde clad in a cheerleading outfit standing in his living room.

"Sam," his mother began with a smile too wide to be sincere. "This is Quinn. I suppose you should know her; she goes to McKinley High, and she's going to stay with us for a while."

He turned to the girl in question.

Her face had gone deathly pale.

The words were lodged in his throat; all he could do was nod.

"Great!" Mary exclaimed with false excitement. "Let me show you the guest bedroom."

* * *

Dinner was awkward at best.

For some twisted reason, his mom thought it would be hilarious to seat him directly in front of their houseguest—as if spending seven to eight hours a day in the same vicinity provided means for polite table conversation—and he spent the entire span of his meal diligently ignoring the fact that her mere presence was making him flustered.

"May I be excused, please," Quinn requested just then, between Stacey and Stevie's bickering about what they were going to build with their new set of Lego.

"Oh, but sweetheart, you've barely eaten anything," Mary Evans commented maternally.

Sam arched an eyebrow, the term of endearment so foreign and probably unheard of in his family. Then again, laying it on thick was his mother's main selling point when it came to client relations—all that schmoozing—he reckoned Mr. and Mrs. Fabray had to be really important to the firm.

"It's alright, Mrs. Evans," she replied primly as she set her napkin down on the table. "The food is delicious, but I'm just not that hungry. It's been a long day and—"

"Yes, of course," Mary rushed to assure her.

"Thank you."

"Don't worry about the plate," the older woman added when Quinn started to gather her cutlery. "Sam will do the dishes."

He didn't miss the quick flicker of her hazel eyes in his direction before she promptly nodded and left the room. Sam watched her go, the swing of her ponytail lacking its usual bounce, and realized he needed an explanation.

"What is she doing here?" he all but demanded the instant she was out of earshot. "How long is she staying? Why is she here?"

"Client confidentiality, Sam," was his mother's only reply. "And I would think you two would know each other, considering you go to school together."

"We don't—I—we don't run with the same group," he admitted bitterly.

"Sorry, Sam, but I'm not allowed to discuss—"

"Well, think of it this way," he interrupted diplomatically, exercising skills honed from years of negotiating with a lawyer for a parental unit. "This house is my safe zone. When I come home everyday from a school full of teenagers who don't acknowledge my existence, I'd like to feel comfortable. Right now, a member of that social circle is in my breathing space and it's threatening my peace of mind. If you were in my shoes, I would think that you would want to know why your haven is being compromised, wouldn't you?"

Dwight Evans was chuckling, clearly amused by the situation. "Just tell him, Mary."

"But the Fabrays are an important—"

"He's your son. Who else is he going to tell this to?"

"The entire school?" Stevie retorted cheekily.

"I'm not going to tell the entire school," Sam muttered, nudging his younger brother's shoulder. "Nobody's going to believe me anyway. I just want to know."

Mary regarded him for a full five seconds until she conceded with a relenting exhale.

"Alright, fine," she huffed. "Her father, Russell, has recently been charged with embezzling his company's funds. It led to her parents' divorce a couple of weeks ago, and her dad fled the country. Her mother is currently in rehab for alcohol addiction, and her sister is away in college and doesn't want anything to do with the family. Her next closest relative is in New York, so I offered to let her stay here. That way, she wouldn't have to pack up her whole life and move to a different state."

Whatever he was expecting, that definitely wasn't it.

And what lingering resentment he harbored disintegrated into thin air. He supposed he had judged Quinn too quickly; he felt sorry for her, the things she had to go through, probably nobody else in the school even knew about it. She was always so guarded, so composed and put-together; he wouldn't have guessed that her life at home was otherwise.

"You can't tell anybody in school, Sam," Mary reminded him sternly. "This is really private."

Just another secret to add to his collection.

"Don't worry, mom, my lips are sealed."

* * *

Sam didn't think it was possible to feel so suffocated in his own damn house, but knowing that the school's most popular girl was padding around just a wall away was rather stifling. His plans to finish his assignments were officially a bust because all he could think of was her; just wondering if she could hear him breathing next door. All of a sudden, the slight rustle of his clothes became too deafening, his sneakers shuffling against the carpet too uproarious; it was akin to being in a glass cage.

A tentative knock on wood startled him out of his reverie.

"I'm busy, mom!"

"Erm…it's not your mom."

He scrambled to his feet, whirling around as the door creaked open to reveal the person on the other side.

"Quinn," he yelped, self-consciously smoothening down the front of his t-shirt.

She appeared unfazed—if partially awkward—even as she stood leaning against the doorjamb with her arms folded across her chest. Involuntarily, his gaze roamed down the length of her body, from her strappy camisole to those tempting shorts, so much of her long, toned legs on display; it was rather disorienting.

"I'm sure your mom told you everything," she uttered flatly, frowning the exact same way she always did in school—detached and unimpressed—when she strutted down the hallways with her hoard of minions.

"Not everything," he said with a shrug. "Client confidentiality."

She gave a curt nod. "Right."

A dreadful pause followed.

"I'm not going to tell anybody in school."

The effort she took to mask her gratitude wouldn't have been in vain if he didn't catch the way the corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly to give her true emotions away.

Another swift nod. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

And then she was gone.

* * *

He didn't remember sleeping; didn't remember watching the light of the sunrise seep through the curtains, but all too soon, his alarm was blaring and the ceiling was still the same shade of ivory as it was eight hours ago. Completely on autopilot, his hand shot out to shut it off. For a few beats, he stayed completely still; just breathing, mentally bracing himself for another long day.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn't looking forward to facing his fellow peers any more than he did the day before. Sure, he now had ammo over Quinn Fabray, but he was never one for exploiting people's secrets and blackmailing them for favors. That was more of Santana's expertise. Throwing the covers off, he begrudgingly dragged himself out of the room to freshen up.

A few feet away, the door to the guest bedroom swung open.

Green met hazel brown, and they froze.

"Erm…" he stuttered hoarsely, his voice croaking from lack of use.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were—"

"No, just go right ahead," he blurted out like the idiot he was. "I'll just use the bathroom downstairs."

She seemed almost guilty about it, and was quite possibly about to argue on his decision, so he took it upon himself to make the first move and scampered off. It was only when he was in the bathroom did he realize that his towel was upstairs, and there was absolutely no way in hell was he going to ask Quinn to pass it to him, so he had to use a spare one—girlishly bright pink with tiny blue polka dots—that he found in the linen closet.

The shower was still running by the time he ducked back into his room, and at the risk of letting his imagination run wild with unrealistic possibilities, he occupied his rampantly dirty mind with menial tasks, such as finding a clean pair of jeans to go with that blue flannel he liked so much. Tying his laces took a bit more concentration than usual, and he might or might not have spent an extra amount of time dallying with his hair, just to make it look as effortless as possible. When at long last he emerged into the kitchen for breakfast, he was pleasantly surprised to find the cheerleader already seated at the table, not a strand of hair out of place or a single wrinkle on her uniform. If anything, Quinn wore her armor impeccably.

"Good morning," he chirped, noticing that she had already helped herself to a bowl of cereal.

"Morning," Quinn replied tentatively as she regarded him with a wary eye, but he was determined to make their living arrangements as painless as possible, so he plastered a friendly smile on his face and powered on.

"My mom has probably already left for work," he chatted cordially and proceeded to spread some peanut butter on a slice of bread. "I think she's expecting us to go to school together, unless, of course you have your car with you—"

"We're not friends, Evans," she sniped, the spoon clanking as she released it from her grip. "So you can drop the act, alright?"

Often he wondered how someone so beautiful on the outside could be so cruel on the inside, if it was just her way of coping; a defense mechanism.

Sam downed his orange juice in three huge gulps, and without another word, he grabbed his backpack and marched out of the house.

* * *

He didn't mean to, but Santana was being so obnoxiously loud, it was nearly impossible not to have overheard the exchange between the three teammates loitering about outside the girls' bathroom while he was fetching some books from his locker.

"Where were you last night, Q?" the Latina questioned, one eyebrow arched and a fist planted on her hip. "Brittany was having a major fucking crisis and you were nowhere to be found."

"I was with Puck."

Her blatant lie was so perfectly honed, he wouldn't have known she was fibbing through her teeth if he didn't actually know the truth.

"Bullshit," Santana spat out. "I called him and he was just as fucking clueless as ever. So, where were you?"

Sam dared to sneak a glance; in time to catch the exaggerated eye roll that Quinn tossed her way.

"What was the major crisis anyway?"

Deflection: her best tactic yet.

"Lord Tubbington started smoking again," Brittany interjected morosely. "I caught him red-handed last night with a cigarette butt in his food dish. I'm thinking of taking him to see a therapist."

Sam always had a nagging feeling that the other blonde was a tad bit strange, but he was sure sending a cat to therapy for something highly improbable tipped the scales into a whole new dimension of weird.

"Hate to break it to you, Brit, but I told you so," Quinn intoned, whether in amusement or pacifyingly. "That damn Persian next door is a bad influence on him."

"That hussy of a cat has got to go," Santana added sassily.

And then, as they walked away, he caught the way she mouthed out her gratitude towards her captain, and all of a sudden he understood Quinn Fabray perfectly.

* * *

"Hey, Evans!"

Perhaps he was hallucinating, but there was no fucking way that she was jogging towards him just as he was about to pull out of the parking lot. Her high ponytail swished from side to side in perfect harmony to her every bounce, and she gave a quick scan around the compound before coming to a stop by the passenger's side door.

"What?"

She blinked, and immediately he felt completely guilty for snapping at her.

"Can I help you, Quinn?" he tried again, hating how she was able to manipulate him without even doing or saying anything.

Her mouth, framed by those rosy lips, parted for a moment, as though the words wouldn't leave her throat, but then she was squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin just so, displaying the milky expanse of her neck that drove him insane most days; he had to curl his fingers tighter around the steering wheel to physically quell his urges.

"Could you give me a ride home?" she grated out, a tinge of embarrassment tainting her cheeks. "I wouldn't ask, but Santana and Brit have already left and—"

"Get in."

* * *

They didn't speak during the twenty-minute drive, and the second he rolled into the garage and killed the engine, she was darting out of the vehicle and fleeing up to the guest bedroom. Just when he thought he had her sussed out, she went and did the unexpected, but he reckoned that was just her entire allure; pull them in and leave them wanting more.

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, Sam trudged straight to the shared en suite for a shower, eager to wash off the sticky remnants of the day. Shedding off his clothes, he was down to his boxers when a strip of satin and lace caught his attention. Hung on the hook at the back of the door was a black brassiere that he was certain didn't belong to his mom.

His hands twitched from the impulsive need to feel the soft material against his skin, the resistance proving futile when his muscles worked against his head and he found himself tracing the elastic strap between his thumb and index finger. He envisioned it, contrasting with her pale flesh, snugly encasing her supple breasts, and suppressed a groan deep in his chest. The first heat of arousal was a jolt straight to his groin and his heightened senses, and suddenly the reality of what he was doing crashed down upon him like a tidal wave of icicles. He staggered backwards, horrified and ashamed of his actions, and plonked himself down on the toilet seat, face buried in his palms.

"Get a grip, man," he murmured. "You're being a creep."

Hormones—and throbbing erection—sorted half a minute later, he stripped off what remained of his outfit and jumped into the cold spray.

* * *

He avoided dinner altogether and made some lame excuse—feigning a troubled stomach from something he ate earlier in school—so that he wouldn't have to face her; reckoned he wouldn't be able to for months to come. It seemed a bit silly, however, considering the lecherous stuff they had done, but fondling her lingerie felt more intimate somehow, forbidden in a way.

**Here I am and I can't seem to see straight  
****But I'm too numb to feel right now**

After the lights had all been switched off and everybody had gone to bed, he snuck down to the kitchen to fix himself a ham and cheese sandwich. He sat in the shadows, mulling about the outcomes of his life now with her in the house.

**And here I am watching the clock that's ticking away my time  
****I'm too numb to feel right now**

"Can't sleep?"

Well, so much for trying to avoid her.

Wordlessly, he shook his head as she approached.

"Me neither."

It was silent, save for the shuffling of her feet against the cold tiles, and then the scrape of the chair as she took a seat across from him, her silhouette the only thing he could see of her. On some level, he was glad, because it would make their encounter slightly easier.

"Are you feeling better?"

Shrugging his shoulders, he replied, "a little."

"Look, I didn't get to thank you for giving me a lift this afternoon—"

"No, don't," he sighed, gathering his plate and the half-consumed sandwich. "I wasn't doing you any favors."

After dumping it all into the sink, he turned and left the room.

* * *

When he found out the next morning that she had ridden to McKinley with his mom, Sam tried not to be too disappointed about it. A reminder that it was what he wanted kept echoing like a broken record in his ears. He only managed a mouthful of cereal before the bitterness in his tongue extinguished whatever was left of his appetite.

Tetchy and bemused, he split for school.

* * *

His sour mood only became worse as the day wore on. Aside from the inevitable loneliness, which he was already accustomed to, it seemed that the whole universe was conspiring against him, for some reason or another, almost punishing him for treating her so harshly.

The first sight he was greeted to in the hallway was one that made his insides churn. Leaned up against her locker, Puck—with his letterman jacket and signature Mohawk—had Quinn bracketed between his meaty arms, whispering into her ear. Not wanting to witness anything that might fracture his sanity, Sam sped up in his pace, but unfortunately not fast enough to escape hearing her giggle. He made the gross mistake of glancing over, and was immediately tormented by the image of the couple snogging as though their lives depended on it.

"Serves me right," he muttered under his breath.

Lunch felt as though he was participating in a horror movie. His favorite spot was taken by a bunch of kids from Glee Club as they went about practicing their harmonies, so he was left with settling for a corner at the edge of the courtyard, in full view of the co-mingling football players and cheerleaders inhibiting the huge table in the center. Right at the apex of it all was a scene he would only ever associate with a car crash. Quinn was perched, rather comfortably in Puck's lap as he nibbled and nipped at the column of her neck.

Sam threw his tuna sandwich without even taking a bite.

* * *

The water was scalding hot as it sluiced down his back, but he could barely care. He stood unflinching; simply staring at the boring tiles and attempted to get his turbulent emotions in check. This mercurial behavior was so unlike him in ways that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. It was incredibly frustrating to be stuck in such a peculiar predicament, especially since he wasn't supposed to be so invested in her life, anyway.

Grumbling less-than-flattering insults at nothing in particular, Sam turned the shower off and stepped out. Absentmindedly, he wrapped a towel around his waist without bothering to mop up the droplets still dotting his naked skin.

The door flung open and he heard a gasp.

A familiar, feminine gasp.

Slowly, he dared to turn around.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Quinn blurted out, hazel eyes blown wide in a mortified expression as she took in his bare appearance. "I didn't know you were—"

"I'm done," he informed her flatly.

She fiddled with the strap of her duffel bag, shifting her weight from one foot to another, a crimson flush coloring her cheeks. "Okay, thanks."

"You're welcome."

* * *

He was rather enjoying his favorite afternoon cartoon show until she plopped down unceremoniously beside him on the sofa without a hint of decorum or personal space. She leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and he was momentarily thrown off guard when the scent of her strawberry shampoo overwhelmed his senses.

"What are you watching?"

The proximity was intoxicating in its simplest form, creating havoc where he was struggling to sort his thoughts. His gaze slid over to hers for a second before darting back to the television, the nest of butterflies now morphing into a whirling tornado in the deepest pits of his guts.

He swallowed hard. "Thundercats."

"Can I watch it with you?"

His forehead creased slightly as he regarded her with genuine perplexity. "If you want to."

Instead of replying, she huddled even closer, her thigh pressing snugly against his and appeared content—and unfazed—to be in such a position. On the contrary, Sam didn't think his discomfort could be anymore blatantly displayed, his posture rigid and his muscles stiff from ensuring that he didn't spontaneously do something remotely stupid, like grab her around the waist and have his wicked way on the couch.

"You're fine with this, right?"

He marveled at her nonchalance.

"Yeah," he practically squeaked, the syllable coming out an octave too high.

**Just tonight I will stay  
****And we'll throw it all away**

She tilted her torso just a tiny bit, and then he was pretty certain those were her breasts brushing right up against his bicep. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm—"

**When the light hits your eyes  
****It's telling me I'm right**

Her soft lips were suddenly pressed fervently with his, promptly ending his sentence, and then everything else he might have been thinking about was short-circuited from his brains when she slid over and climbed onto his lap. Hands that had gone idle from the shock zapped back to life as he sought out the creamy skin beneath a thin layer of cotton. A low groan rippled from the base of his chest when her tongue slipped in, the taste of coffee lingering on her breath, and when she did a particularly clever maneuver of her hips, he all but threw her down onto the sofa. She gave a startled squeak, giggling, until he silenced her once again with a long, thorough kiss.

Later, he would deliberate at length about this momentary lapse in judgment, but with Quinn's toned legs wrapped around his hips and rutting against his crotch, all he knew was that he wanted more. Those damn adolescent hormones and their complete disregard for propriety, and because he was powerless to her methods of persuasion, Sam surrendered to his desires. He gave an experimental thrust, hissing as she gasped. Even through layers of fabric, he could feel the heat emanating from her core.

Through his lustful haze, Sam registered the front door open.

"Sam, we're home!"

They sprang apart, faces positively flushed, hair and clothes disheveled, and eyes trained stubbornly at the television screen, and when his siblings bounded in and hopped onto the sofa between them, Sam struggled to even out his breathing and keep the situation in his pants at bay.

"Sammy, what's this episode of Thundercats about?" his brother asked.

Chancing a quick glimpse over to the blonde at the other end of the seat, he noticed her fidgeting, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know, kiddo," he replied. "Wasn't really paying attention."

**And if I, I am through  
****Then it's all because of you  
****Just tonight**

* * *

He skipped dinner again, opting rather to hole up in his room and not dwell on the singular thought that had plagued him the entire afternoon. Still recovering from a tiny case of blue balls from earlier couch-related activities, Sam rolled over and buried his nose into the warmth of his pillow. He wouldn't want to risk taking one look at Quinn and sporting a massive boner under the table in front of his family.

"No, thank you," he muttered.

Moping was pathetic, but apparently he had resorted to such archaic methods in hopes of sorting out what it had meant when she kissed him so unexpectedly. If it had been one of those heat-of-the-moment things, he would probably believe it had he done something significantly seductive.

However, he would fiercely object that binging and watching cartoons was in any shape or form a sexy activity. Could it be that perhaps she was feeling a bit randy and had turned to the most convenient person within the ten-mile radius? Deliberating on that somewhat demeaning path deflated a bit of his manly ego, only because he knew all too well that Quinn Fabray wasn't above doing so.

She had, after all, done that before.

* * *

At half past twelve, his bedroom door creaked open.

The darkness swallowed up what little illumination the hallway provided but it wasn't a mystery that she had entered his bubble, and as he kept his back to her, shoulders stiff and breaths shallow in fearful anticipation, he waited to hear the click of the lock before hesitantly turning over. Unwilling to get his hopes up too high—in case she was simply there to borrow a piece of paper or another—he simply stared at the silhouette now looming over him.

"Sam?"

One syllable was all it took, as her voice cracked, to know that she had been crying.

Before he could think to do anything else, he was scooting to the edge of the bed and folding down the duvet in silent invitation. Between a quiet sob and a whimper, she slid in, curling herself into his warm, open embrace. She tucked her head beneath his chin, her nose brushing against his collarbone, and as she released a long, shuddering exhale, he could only pull her closer and drop an assuring kiss to her crown.

**Do you understand who I am?  
****Do you wanna know?**

"Puck broke up with me."

He wasn't going to pry, and he definitely hadn't expected her to say anything, much less tell him the truth, so it surprised him that she did. Honestly, he shouldn't have been shocked at all. In hindsight, Puck would've treated her like a piece of Kleenex, anyway, because he was that kind of an asshole, and sure, Quinn should've known better than to let a good-for-nothing jock use her like that.

**Can you really see through me now?  
****I'm about to go**

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Yeah," she sighed. "Me too."

* * *

She was gone when he woke up the next morning, leaving an imprint on his mattress and her sweet scent on his pillow. He couldn't be disappointed about it. Despite her momentary vulnerability the night before, he wouldn't kid himself into thinking that anything had changed. Stealing just a couple more seconds to savor the memory, Sam gazed longingly at the door; some pathetic part of him hoping she would walk in with that radiant smile, straddle his waist and have her wicked way with him, and fuck, he probably shouldn't be thinking of it. His morning wood was becoming rather uncomfortable.

The shower took longer than he would've liked; there was a five-minute internal debacle with himself, but eventually the cold spray took care of the problem. Breakfast was lonely and his cereal had turned soggy by the time he was done with it, and during the drive to school, he made a point to put the Metallica CD on full volume.

He heard the raucous before he saw the ugly scene. Santana's piercing voice rang high and loud, reverberating down the hallway, and vaguely, he managed to grasp onto fragments of information amongst the sea of vulgarities; enough that when his eyes met those of Quinn's hazel ones and saw the tears glistening in them, he had half the mind to march up to a cockily-smirking Noah Puckerman and beat his smug face into a pulp. Instead, he weaved his way through the crowd, found her hand, and as discreetly as possible, removed her from the upsetting situation.

They slipped into the janitor's closet, the industrial smell of disinfectant and chalk instantly assaulting his nose, but it quickly became the furthest thing from his mind when Quinn spun around and collapsed right into his chest, her body trembling and wrecked in sobs. He held her wordlessly, cradling her as he whispered mellifluous nothings in her ear; telling her that it wasn't her fault, that she didn't deserve all the shit being thrown at her.

When the first period bell rang, jarring them out of their little private moment, Sam refused to let her go. Perhaps it was the sudden rush of protectiveness he felt for her; perhaps he just didn't like to share, but in any case, there was absolutely no fucking way he was sending her back to the sharks.

"You want to get out of here?" he asked softly. "Ditch school and drive somewhere?"

She only nodded.

"Okay, then."

* * *

He took the exit into the highway, the lack of traffic reminding them that they weren't where they should be. The windows were rolled down, his hair was a disheveled mess, and she hadn't spoken a single word since they pulled out of the school gates. Staring vacantly out at the rolling scenery, her rigid posture hardly waned the further they drove, and it was starting to unnerve him.

"Are you fine with me putting the radio on?"

She jumped, genuinely startled. "Oh, yeah, of course."

"Country music okay with you?"

"Anything but Dolly Parton, please," she muttered. "My mom has her songs on repeat enough times to last me an eternity."

He dared to crack a smile, feeling a gigantic weight being lifted off his shoulders. "What's wrong? All that hair not working for you?"

Quinn was giggling, albeit tentatively, but he'll take whatever she would give him. "All that lips, too."

"Not a fan of that pout, then?"

In a very uncharacteristic move, she did a sassy impression of the celebrity, fluffing her ponytail and pinching her lips together. "What do you think? Better?"

At the risk of swerving off the road, his eyes zeroed in on those particularly enticing part of her anatomy, all pink and luscious, and like a moth to a flame, he felt drawn to simply lean over and kiss her with every fiber of his being. With the last bit of self-control he still had, Sam forced his gaze away from her face to return straight ahead. He flipped the dial and Rascal Flatts came through the stereo, playing one of his favorite songs.

"I like this," Quinn commented.

The lyrics resonated in his heart, of having something so close only to be ripped away.

"Me too."

* * *

They stopped at a fast-food joint for lunch and he offered to pay for their meal. She had a chicken salad and a bottle of water, and he reckoned it was no wonder she looked the way she did. Then again, he knew about Coach Sylvester's unrepentant reputation and how that woman lived to chew on her girls' asses. Nobody left the squad emotionally unscarred.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He paused in mid-chew, green eyes snapping up to meet her narrowed gaze, and swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"Look, you don't have to sugar-coat anything for me," she told him, poking at her food with a fork. "We aren't exactly friends, and the only thing we have in common is where we live. So why are you doing this?"

"Because you're worth more than you settle for."

**But just tonight I won't leave  
****And I'll lie and you'll believe**

She regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and for a split second, he feared that he might have crossed the line. His throat ran dry as time ticked by and she remained motionless and impassive. With Quinn, it was always a gamble, a constant Russian roulette of hits and misses; things could go both ways.

Until that way involved her lurching forward and capturing his lips in a searing kiss that left him more than a little light-headed. It ended as abruptly as it began, and Sam, reeling from the aftermath, sat stunned with his mouth gaping like a flabbergasted idiot. In a way, that wasn't far from the truth.

"Wh—what—erm—" he stammered incoherently, blood whooshing to the tips of his ears. Exhaling a long breath of air, he self-consciously rubbed at the nape of his neck. "What was that for?"

"For being you."

**Just tonight I will see  
****It's all because of me**

* * *

There was a museum not far into town from where they were; Quinn had noticed a sign earlier along the way, and on impulse, they both decided it could be fun. Students entered for free on weekdays, and since all the kids were still in school, they were the only ones there.

"I don't remember reading about this," Sam murmured as he studied the small block of azurite-malachite ore from Arizona.

"That's because it's not in our textbooks," she replied from the other end of the room.

He sniffed, peering down at the panel to read the short write-up. "It should be."

"Why?"

"It's more interesting than all the other minerals we have to learn about."

She hummed in agreement.

"Yeah, it is."

* * *

Eventually, they ran out of exhibits to view and it was time to head back. Three missed calls awaited him when he checked on his cellphone—two from his mom and one from his dad—and from the passenger's side, he noticed the frown on Quinn's face as she skimmed through the numerous text messages she had received. They were in deep shit—playing hooky was going to cost them dearly—and he was sure to receive a good tongue-lashing and a fair amount of reprimanding—possibly a bit of grounding—from his parents, but he didn't regret a single moment.

"Santana's freaking out," she muttered. "I guess I'd better give her a ring."

He didn't mean to eavesdrop on the one-sided conversation as he cruised down the freeway, listening, as Quinn grew agitated with each reply. Repeatedly, she assured her concerned friend that she was perfectly fine and that she hadn't been kidnapped, and to please inform Brittany that the aliens hadn't taken her to Mars. Chuckling, he kept his eyes peeled on the road and envisioned the other blonde in their trio spouting insane theories about the cheer captain's departure. A year sitting behind her in Creative Writing was quite an education on her wild fantasies.

"Wow," he snickered when at long last she hung up the phone. "We're going to be in so much trouble."

She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. "Don't even," she groused. "I think Santana's camped out on your driveway just waiting for us."

His eyes grew wide, the color draining from his skin. "She's not going to slap me or anything, is she?"

"Why would she do that?"

"I don't know," he huffed. "Just sounds like something she'd do."

"Not to you, though."

He had to look at her, to properly see for himself that she wasn't just pulling on his leg, but she refused to meet his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because you did nothing to hurt me and she knows it."

Sam could only hope that it was true.

* * *

It felt as though he had stepped into an alternate universe—a parallel dimension—of sorts when they entered to find two cheerleaders lounging on his sofa, laughing and chatting amicably with his parents. There were snacks on the coffee table, some chips and two glasses of soda, and the television was switched on to a low hum but nobody was paying it any attention.

"Do you think they'll notice if we just sneak upstairs?" he whispered in Quinn's ear.

"Even a fly wouldn't get past Santana," she mumbled in return. "We'd have better luck climbing down the roof, Mission Impossible-style."

"I can hear you talking about me, you know," Santana chirped, half-amused as the conversation ceased and four pairs of eyes zoomed in on them; the two teenagers standing stupidly in the hallway.

"Quinn," Mary greeted heartily with a warm smile, though it faded quickly the instant she turned to her eldest son. "Sam."

"It's not his fault, Mrs. Evans," Quinn rushed to his defense. "It was my idea to skip class and—"

"Oh, sweetheart," his mom gently cut in. "Santana here explained everything, and I'm so sorry about that Noah kid. He has no right hurting you like that, especially during such a delicate time with what you're going through—"

Sam, sensing that this was causing some mild discomfort to Quinn, decided to jump in before she became completely mortified.

"Mom," he boldly interrupted. "Can we not do this right now?"

"I'll deal with you later, Samuel," she curtly dismissed with a pointed glare. "Quinn, honey, why don't you take your friends up the your room? I'll bring a tray of cheese and crackers in a bit, alright?"

Quinn parted her lips to say something, but Santana beat her to it; leaping to her feet and linking their arms together, practically dragging the speechless cheer captain up the set of stairs. Brittany stayed confused for a full three seconds before it clicked and she was hot on their heels, disappearing with a call to wait up for her, leaving Sam alone to thread on dangerous territory with his mom and dad.

"Cheese and crackers, mom?" Sam snorted. "Really? Do we even have those?"

"Don't start with me," she snapped furiously. "I can't believe you, Sam. I thought we raised you better than this. Skipping school and missing class; it wasn't what I needed to hear at work from your principal. You have absolutely no idea how angry I am right now. Quinn is the daughter of a client, and I can't have you getting her in trouble. If word gets back to my firm about this, she can lose her privilege of being here, do you understand me?"

He dropped his gaze to the carpet floor, visibly chastised and rightfully so. Their spontaneity had been a foolish move; they hadn't considered the consequences and now it was going to nip them in the butt.

"Yes, mom."

* * *

Brittany and Santana left right after dinner, citing schoolwork and a long day of practice, but just before they went, the Latina had pulled him aside by the elbow, shoving him almost forcefully into a secluded corner in the kitchen. He didn't appreciate the manhandling, especially not with those sharp claws digging into his flesh.

"What is it?" he hissed, wrenching his limb free.

She took a dangerous step forward and brought her nose barely inches away from his. The glare in her eyes could melt iron, so intimidating, he found himself shrinking backwards into the wall. How was it possible that his life had gone from zero to a hundred in a week?

"You treat her right, you hear me?" she demanded, stabbing one finger repeatedly into his chest.

"What—what are you—"

Her hands flew wildly in the air. "Cut the bullshit, Macaulay Culkin—"

"I—I don't know who that is—"

"I saw the both of you the night of the party, sneaking out that back door, and when she mentioned that she'd got it on with Puck, I knew she wouldn't in hell have given up her virginity for that bastard, so I put two and two together." She eased back slightly to fold her arms across her chest, the smugness multiplying by two-fold. "Doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to figure out what happened, and when I asked, she told me the truth."

Considering that he had been sworn to secrecy, he couldn't say that he wasn't surprised. "She did?"

"Fine," Santana groused, rolling her eyeballs. "So I forced her into telling me, but the fact is she did, and truthfully, I don't trust your Guppy face, but for some crazy reason she obviously does, or she wouldn't have even considered you as an option—"

"Gee, thanks, Santana," he replied sarcastically.

"She likes you. Don't screw it up."

* * *

His cellphone buzzed at half past one. Undeniably still awake, he set the comic book down and reached for the device still vibrating on his bedside table. It was a text message sent from the person in the room just down the hallway from his, and while he didn't think she was still awake, it was definitely a different approach from the night before.

_Can you come over?_

Brows furrowed, he spent the next thirty seconds reading and re-reading the words on the screen, wondering what she actually meant by that vague request. Another ten seconds passed of his thumbs hovering over the keypad before another alert went off in his hands.

_What did Santana tell you?_

He reckoned his mind had just suffered from a whiplash at the abrupt one-eighty, still trying to match up to her speed and wavelength. Before he could even register enough to reply, she had beaten him to it once again.

_I know you're awake. I can see the light from your room._

Vaulting off his bed like a damn Olympic athlete, he lunged for the door and threw it open. Quinn was frowning, lips pinched together in a displeased pout with her hair piled up atop her head in a messy tangle, all traces of make-up scrubbed clean as she stood bare-faced before him, and he didn't think she looked more beautiful than she did at that very moment. The crimson McKinley High T-shirt was entirely too big for her delicate frame, its bottom reaching her mid-thigh, an apparently one that she had stolen from his drawers. Seeing her clad in his clothes sent a flash of heat through every nerve ending.

"You didn't answer to my texts."

**Just tonight I will stay  
****And we'll throw it all away**

It was rhetorical, something to fill the silence.

"I didn't know what to say."

She shuffled closer, crossing the threshold and gently pressing her palms against his chest, where he was certain she could feel his heart galloping underneath her warm touch. A shiver coursed down his spine from the proximity as she stared deeply into his green eyes, her breath fanning over his chin.

**When the light hits your eyes  
****It's telling me I'm right**

"Just tonight?" she whispered, so tentative and vulnerable in her tone, her gaze pleading up at him.

Yet, he found himself shaking his head.

"I don't want that, Quinn," he informed her hoarsely. "It's all or nothing for me."

She paused, gnawing on her bottom lip.

"Could you do one thing for me, then?"

"Anything," he breathed.

"Don't hurt me, please."

The broken quality in her voice made it physically impossible not to kiss her, so that was what he did. Hands cupping her cheeks, he dove in and sealed her mouth with his, pouring every ounce of emotion as he could before reluctantly pulling away to rest his forehead against hers.

**And if I, I am through  
****Then it's all because of you  
****Just tonight**

"I won't."

* * *

Come Monday morning, Sam Evans knew that things weren't going to be quite the same in school. She would still parade down the hallways, head held high with her ponytail and cheerleading outfit—no insignificant event was going to faze her—Brittany and Santana flanking her like two sturdy pillars, and still rule the student body with merely a quirk of an eyebrow or a smirk on her lips.

Tonight, though, she was his.

Sexually.

Physically.

Emotionally.

His name tumbled out in hushed whispers upon her lips as he kept up a steady rhythm, thrusting in and out of her in earnest; his sole determination to bring her to the brink of ecstasy and watch as she completely came apart in his arms. Trailing kisses across the flushed skin above her breasts, he murmured encouragements in her ear, singing praises of her beauty, letting her know that he was there to catch her when she fell.

With a gasp and an arch of her back, she was trembling around him; clenching, gloving him so tightly, he was stupid to think he could last one second longer. Grunting, he finally succumbed to the throes of pleasure, sinking his teeth into her shoulder to stifle the long, drawn-out groan rumbling in his chest.

Later on, as she burrowed into his side, drowsy and eyelids drooping, Quinn asked, "are you going to tell people about us?"

"Do you want me to?"

She released a contented sigh and snuggled deeper.

"Yes."

**It's all because of you  
****Just tonight**

* * *

**A/N:** The end! Good news: THA is progressing, which means I'll be able to update it soon. I'm about 75% done with the next chapter, so I'm pretty excited about moving that story along. I think I did a story that's quite similar before, I'm sure it was 'Just Give Me a Reason' and it had the McKinley High AU, but this started off as a prompt that I had received whereby Quinn is the HBIC and didn't really take notice of Sam until she was forced into a situation with him, so there you go, for the lovely anon who requested for it.

Song used: "Just Tonight" by The Pretty Reckless


End file.
